


Welcome of the Golden Witch

by Mertiya



Category: Umineko no Naku Koro ni | When the Seagulls Cry
Genre: Angst, Battler's return, F/M, Feels, First Time, Homecoming, Light BDSM, Loss of Virginity, Smut, Tsunderes, aka standard Beatrice, cruel witch, red and blue truths, tsundere pretending to be cruel witch pretending to be tsundere
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-26
Updated: 2013-12-26
Packaged: 2018-01-06 04:53:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,552
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1102649
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mertiya/pseuds/Mertiya
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It takes a long time for Battler to make it to the Golden Land, but when he does, Beato is waiting for him.  With bonds.  And a collar.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Welcome of the Golden Witch

            She sinks like a stone, the weight of her gold pulling her downward toward inky blackness, like a robber who cannot release her spoils even under threat of death.  But the only thing she’s trying to steal is the breath from her own lungs, racing ahead of the man she loves because she cannot live away from her island (not free, not as herself), and she’d rather spare them both the pain and wait for him in the Golden Land.  He won’t be long.  It’s just Ange he needs to go back for, just to prove to her that miracles do happen, no matter what their eponymous witch may try to claim.  She can live without him for a time, give him up if it’s what’s best for the lonely little girl with the bright red pigtails.  She’s getting sentimental in her old age.

            His shadow is dark above her, and the tears at leaving him are stripped from her eyes by the unforgiving salt water, indistinguishable from any other droplet in their depths.

            _Go on_ , she whispers, through the cold and the dark, _Live_.  _Go back to her_.  And, softer still, _But come back to me._

            He’s rising, borne on the buoyancy of the future’s call, as she’s pulled downward by the past’s heavy weight.  There is a ripple of the light, and his shadow seems to stretch--and then it has split from his form, and his shadow is swimming down toward her.

            _No_ , she tries to say, as his cold umbral hand catches hers, as she sees the half of him above her rising mercilessly small through the translucent form grasping at her hand, and then the door to the Golden Land opens, blooming beneath the pair of falling lovers in the center of a golden rose, and they tumble through.

~

            When Battler wakes up, he is alone in the cousins’ room at Rokkenjima.  That’s funny.  He doesn’t remember arriving.  The last thing he remembers is Ange getting sick, and Mom and Dad deciding she’d better not come.  Then—there is no transition between that memory and this one.  How odd.  He must have been very tired last night, or maybe he had a drop too much alcohol with Dad.  His head is aching, so that seems like a plausible explanation.  George and Jessica have clearly woken up already and gone out.  The sun is filtering brightly in through the window onto their made-up beds.  George might have done that himself, but Jessica often forgets, so it seems Shannon or one of the other servants has also been here while he has slept.

            He has the odd impression that the door was closed, but it’s now clearly open, and he shakes his head muzzily.  He must definitely have had too much with Dad last night.  He wonders if Dad found Kinzo’s fabled absinthe store.

            He’s not in his usual pajamas either, which is also strange.  The ones he is wearing are too big for him, and he doesn’t recognize the pattern.  Was he seriously so passed out that somebody had to dress him?  God, that’s embarrassing.

            “Battler?” Jessica’s voice addresses him hesitantly from the doorway.

            He tries to look unconcerned as he faces her.  “I’ll be down for breakfast soon.  I just overslept a little.  I’m fine.”

            She slides into the room, and her usually carefree face doesn’t seem so carefree anymore.  “Breakfast?” she echoes uncertainly.

            “I didn’t sleep that late, did I?” he asks anxiously.

            “You—uh—Battler, don’t you remember what happened?”

            He forces a shaky laugh.  “Ah—I guess not.  Did I drink too much last night?”

            The vase that was on the dresser is in pieces on the floor.  Did he knock it over trying to get in bed last night?  He’d thought it was still fine.

            “Battler.”

            “What?”

            Jessica says something, but there’s a buzzing in his ears, and he can’t make it out.  “What?”

            She looks stricken.  “Uh—I’ll be right back,” she says and scurries out of the room. 

            That was weird.

            Battler waits in bed for a few more minutes, then clambers out and gets dressed with his head aching fiercely.  Jessica comes back with a girl Battler has never seen before, with curly violet hair, wearing what looks like a blue coat over a swimsuit.  Battler blinks.  “Uh…who are you?” he asks.

            “So you can see her all right!” Jessica exclaims.

            “What?” says Battler.

            The girl gives him a nod.  “I am Dlanor A. KNOX,” she says, in a calm monotone.  “There appears to be a PROBLEM.”

            “A problem?” Battler asks, bewildered by where this odd girl has come from.

            Jessica opens her mouth, but Dlanor stops her from speaking.  “You have had an ACCIDENT,” she says.  “It seems to have affected your MEMORY.”

            A shock runs through Battler.  “Ahaha,” he laughs weakly.  “Is this a joke?”

            Jessica shakes her head.  “I’m sorry, Battler,” she says and sighs.  “This is going to be complicated.”

            “How much am I missing?” Battler asks, suddenly afraid.  Complicated?  It can’t be that long, right?

            Jessica says again.  “Oh, just about two days,” she says, and he sags with relief, but her voice is strange.

~

            “Aaaaaargh!” Beatrice screams at the top of her lungs and throws a teapot at Battler’s head.  It sails right through and smashes on the wall behind him.  Ronove looks shocked, and everyone else in the room shifts uncomfortably, except for Battler, of course, who gets a slightly baffled look on his face and then looks across at Shannon, who is fairly near the wall.  “You should be more careful, Shannon,” he tells her.  “I’m pretty sure that was Ronove’s favorite teapot.”

            It has been several weeks now, and it has been clearly established to everyone that, although Battler has no problem interacting with any of the magical creatures in the Golden Land, he can neither perceive Beatrice nor any event or statement that might implicate her presence.  Battler was a little shocked to find out that they were all dead, but he seemed to believe that there had been some kind of accident on Rokkenjima, and that this was some form of afterlife.  Other than that, he seems fairly normal, if a little vacant at times.

            “I know it was, you idiot!” shouts Beatrice, stamping her foot on the ground so hard that it trembles slightly.

            “Milady,” Ronove says, cautiously. 

            “What!” Beatrice shrieks at him.

            “Patience, Milady,” Ronove says.  “You know this is almost certainly only temporary, until the part of Milord that remains in the real world has reunited with Ange.”

            Beatrice sniffles slightly, then says haughtily, “Yes, of course.  I’m sure it won’t be much longer,” and stalks out of the room.  Maria and Sakutarou look at each other, and Maria pipes up, “We’ll go after her in a little while.”

            “Maria?” Battler says fondly.  “Are you talking about the Golden Witch again?”  The only time he understands it when anyone refers to Beatrice is when Maria talks about the Golden Witch, but even if he says he acknowledges her existence, it’s obvious that he’s just humoring his little cousin.  Maria rolls her eyes.

            Beatrice stops just outside the room, leaning back against the wall.  Her head and throat hurt, and her foot hurts from stamping too hard on the floor.  She feels her eyes starting to get damp, and she sniffs, but the tears begin to flow all the same.  It would be bad enough if he weren’t here, but to have him be here and just not to be able to see her—it’s a constant ache.

            “Beato?” It’s Virgilia, and Beatrice tries again to slow the sobs, but she can’t, and she ends up with her head on her teacher’s shoulder, crying, as Virgilia makes soothing noises and strokes her hair.

            “We’ve been keeping an eye on him—the part of him that isn’t here,” she says.  “He isn’t well.”

            “What is that supposed to mean?” Beatrice asks scornfully through her sobs.

            Virgilia sighs.  “He’s lost his memory,” she says, and Beatrice laughs rather wildly and looks around for something to throw again.  When she finds nothing, she gathers herself up, brushing the tears haughtily out of her eyes, and stalks out of the room.  Virgilia wisely does not follow her.

~

            Tohya is watching himself dream.  He floats above himself as he tries to reach someone, as he tries to follow the glint of gold into the darkness beneath him.  He wants to call out, but there is suffocating cold all around him, and he cannot.  He wakes up breathing heavily and rolls over in the bed to clutch at the sleeping form beside him.

            Hachijo wakes up more slowly, but when she does, she gathers him beneath her curtain of long, dark hair, and strokes his head until he falls asleep again.

            Blue eyes follow him into his dreams and stare accusingly until the morning comes.

~

            Beatrice has graduated from crying, stomping, and yelling to a stormy silence.  She sits in the garden overlooking the cliff-face, and drinks cup after cup of strong, black tea with no sugar.  Sometimes she scribbles in a black notebook; sometimes she moves pieces on a chessboard, but she almost never comes inside.

            The rest of the family learn quickly to keep Battler away from the cliff.  If she sees Battler, Beatrice either causes a typhoon to come up and destroy absolutely everything (and then refuses to put things back together for days, so that no one can use the kitchens or get a decent meal), or she just looks, with eyes so big and accusatory that no one can handle the awkwardness except for the oblivious Battler.

            It’s become Maria’s job to play with Beatrice.  Maria spends a good part of her exploring at the edges of the Golden Land and creating various vehicles which allow her to travel from one part to the other (and even beyond, although she isn’t letting anybody know that; Mama would throw a fit), but when she isn’t doing that, she sits with Beatrice.

            Beato talks to her.  They play puzzles together and try to make up spells.  Sometimes the spells really work, but sometimes they don’t.  At first, Beatrice did a lot of spells to make Battler see her, but they didn’t work.  Maria tried to make Battler see her too, but he just thinks she’s one of Maria’s imaginary friends, so she and Beato don’t talk about him.

            Instead, they talk about Maria’s machines and Maria’s friends.  They make stories and worlds, and sometimes they visit them.  Sometimes, they even bring friends along, like Dlanor or Jessica or Eva, or even once, memorably, Erika.  The resultant truth battle between Beatrice and her rival nearly burned Rokkenjima to the ground (again).  But Beatrice is still hurting, and Maria can’t do anything to help, even though she and Sakutarou put their heads together and try and try and try to find a solution.

            It’s a long time until Sakutarou whispers that he heard from the Stakes that _they_ heard from Ange that Battler’s coming home, long enough that Maria finds out that she’s sort of growing up--in bits and pieces—but definitely growing up all the same.  The way she looks at things is becoming less like a little girl.  Sometimes she understands what the adults are saying.  It’s a strange, haphazard, out-of-order process, but she doesn’t worry about it too much.

~

            Everybody keeps rushing about, as if they’re preparing for someone, but no one will tell Battler what they’re preparing _for_.  The closest anyone came was Jessica, who paused in bringing armfuls of roses in from the garden to say, when asked, “Oh, it’s just a surprise party for, um, an old friend.”

            Battler doesn’t know why everyone is being so secretive, but he finds it more than a little annoying.  When he thinks about it, he’s felt this way for ages, as if something is being hidden from him, but no matter how much he asks, no one will tell him.  Sometimes, they allude to the two days that are missing out of his head; Shannon once made a teasing remark about him making an idiot out of himself the last time he was on Rokkenjima (when everyone was alive), and then her eyes slid away as if she was thinking of something—or somebody—else.

            Battler tries not to worry about it, but when he walks into the main living room to find that the end-table has been covered in flowers and arranged like a bier, he starts getting nervous.  After all, if his step-mom went off her rocker _once_ and killed them all, she could do it again, couldn’t she?  Or someone else could.  Everyone’s been giving him even funnier looks than usual.  Maybe they’ve _all_ gone off the deep-end and they’re planning to kill him off (again) and eat his remains.  It’s a pretty farfetched theory, and Battler ends up laughing at himself, but not before the thought of cannibalism sparks off a strange kind of itch in his brain.  An image flashes in front of his eyes—Maria’s head dancing by itself in a steel tray.  _You shouldn’t be asking anyone to eat you at your age, Maria!_

            Maybe it’s not everyone else’s sanity he should be worrying about. 

            “Oh—Battler—you’re already here.”  It’s Asmodeus, one of the seven crazy anthropomorphizations of, apparently, Grandfather’s cheap knickknacks.  “I mean, you’re not _here_ here, but you’re here.”

            “What?”  Battler rubs his forehead.  The Stakes never make much sense, but this is obscure, even for them.

            “Oh—nothing!” Asmodeus says, in the forced-cheerful kind of voice one uses on someone who’s either slightly insane or possibly dying.  Battler sighs and gives up.  Out of the corner of his eye, he catches sight of Leviathan pausing to speak to someone, but when he turns around, she’s just playing with a wreath of flowers: there’s no one there.  The fact she finds it necessary, at this juncture, to let out a piercing squeal as if someone pinched her—has got to be a coincidence, right?

            Battler finds himself needing to sit down.  His head is aching, though he’s not certain why.  Jessica barrels into the room, carting one more armful of roses, followed by Kanon, whose usually serious face is split by a giant grin.  After Jessica drops the roses at the bottom of the thing-which-is-definitely-not-a-pyre, Kanon spins her around masterfully, but loses his nerve at the last second and kisses her gingerly on the cheek.  She goes pink.

            After that, it seems that the whole family is trooping in.  Kinzo, with Maria on one arm and Sakutarou on the other, leads the way, looking very stern and forbidding.  He is closely followed by Krauss and Natsuhi; Hideyoshi and Eva; Rosa; Gohda, Genji, and Kumasawa; Ronove and Virgilia; Lucifer, Satan, Belphegor, Mammon, and Beelzebub.  It’s an impressive parade.  Battler doesn’t think he’s seen this many members of the Rokkenjima contingent together—well, ever.  Yet, somehow, the room still feels empty. 

            “Can I put up the banner now?” asks Maria, and she glances across the room toward an empty spot which moves through the crowd of people and steps up onto the—Battler shakes his suddenly-fuzzy head.  Shakes it again.  There’s a sudden stab of pain in his left temple, and there’s a body lying on the bier, her long, golden hair delicately arranged in a number of coiling spirals, her pale hands clasped lifelessly together across her ample breasts.

            “Beatrice,” Battler gulps, as his head is suddenly filled with memories, as Maria lets out a little cheer of “Welcome home, Battler!” and he hears the faint echo of Ange’s voice whispering a benediction.

~

            They’re alone.  Beatrice can feel every thud of her heart, every breath catching in her lungs.  Lying here is _boring_ , and she’s had to lie here for such a long time, while the rest of the family exclaim with joy at Battler’s return and as every one of them tells him woefully and sadly that she had just died of a broken heart because he’d taken so long. 

            He isn’t going to buy it.  Not enough of the Ushiromiya clan are good at acting, and Beatrice is going to have sharp words with Mammon tomorrow, because her attempts to suppress laughter were amateurish in the _extreme_.  But Battler hasn’t expressed any doubt, and he asked to be alone with her, and if there’s any chance he does believe it—the bastard (literally, _ha_!) deserves it.  That was the point of this, after all.

            Battler’s footsteps are loud thuds against the carpeted floor.  Beatrice has to force herself to keep still as he pauses just out of reach of her.

            “Guess I was too late again.”  She can’t read his voice, but she isn’t going to risk cracking an eye open.  “Sorry, Beato.”  She feels a light touch on the back of her hand, and it takes her a moment to realize that it’s his fingertips trailing down her knuckles.  She’s ticklish there, and it’s hard not to react, but she’s the Golden Witch Beatrice, and she doesn’t move a muscle.  It’s a relief when he slides his hand along her arm, where the cloth of her dress protects her from full contact.  There’s something burning in the pit of her stomach, and she wants to throw her arms around him and sob.  Stupid Battler, making her feel like this!  After ignoring her for so long!

            “Or do you just need your prince to come?  Is that it, Beato?  Are you fussing around and being a sleeping beauty to teach me a lesson?”  There’s a rush of warm air as he bends over her, and his breath is hot against her mouth, tickling the little hairs on her upper lip.  Is he going to kiss her?  Her heart beats faster just at the thought.  His lips move even closer.  He pauses.  Is he thinking how sorry he is that he’s done this to her?  He’d better be.  Then the hand that has been resting on her arm moves up and roughly squeezes her left breast.

            A muscle twitches in Beato’s face.  Battler’s mouth moves over to her ear.  “I guess if you’re _really_ dead, I’ll just have to worship your body the way I would have done if you’d been alive, since it’s the only way I have to be close to you.”

            Another muscle twitch.  He’d better not mean what she thinks he means.  There’s no way even Battler would be that much of a pervert, even if he _is_ Kinzo’s grandson.  There’s just no way.  Why isn’t he crying and begging her to wake up?  That’s what he’s supposed to be doing!  Grimly, she refuses to move.  He’s either been driven insane by grief or he thinks she’s pretending.  If she keeps this up, he’s got to fall at her feet and start sobbing soon.

            She feels him moving away again, and the hand on her breast, after another rude squeeze, moves down her stomach, pauses for a heart-stopping minute, then moves down her leg.  What’s he doing now?  She feels her right shoe being loosened and gently removed.

            “You always wanted me to kiss your feet, so that’s what I’ll do.”

            Ha!  He’s finally going to—wait, does Battler know how ticklish her feet—

            His lips brush, not the toes, but the arch of her foot, and Beatrice squeals out loud and kicks as hard as she can.  There’s a thump and a yelp, and she sits up, trembling with anger, to see Battler on the floor, nursing his nose.

            “I HATE YOU YOU IDIOT!” she yells.  He’s ruined _everything_.  He was going to violate her dead body, and he didn’t even care he’d driven her to suicide with his stupid shenanigans!  She jumps off the bier and tries to run, but her dress gets caught in the stupid roses, and she has to pause to rip it free.

            “Beato, wait!”  He catches her arm, and she turns around and slaps him on the face. 

            “I HATE YOU!  You left and you didn’t even care that I was dead and you were going to—to—“

            Battler pulls her into his arms.  “You crazy witch, I knew you were fine.  I needed to get you talk to me somehow.”

            “Ugh.”

            “Beato, what’d I do?”  
            “You _left_ me!  _Again_!”  Her voice is far too shrill and desperate, and she has to reign in the desire to start sobbing into his shirt.  She turns her head away, points her nose at the ceiling.  “Not that I care if I don’t mean anything to you, it’s just rude to treat a lady like that.”

            “Uh huh.  How exactly did _I_ leave _you_?  I seem to remember _someone_ telling me to close my eyes and then _jumping out of the fucking boat_.”

            Beatrice freezes.  How _dare_ he, when he knows she just did that to—

            “I was just trying to make sure your little sister wouldn’t kill herself, because that would make you soooo sad!”

            “Yeah, maybe you should have discussed your clever plan with me beforehand.  Besides—“

            His hand grabs her chin and turns her face firmly to look at him.  She’s not expecting it, so doesn’t resist effectively.  “Ange isn’t the one I watched die in front of me—twice now—is she?”

            She freezes.  “Y-yeah?  Well, I was trying to-to let you see your little sister again, right?  Because I’m such a generous woman!  And it’s not my fault you let me die the first time.  It’s because you left, isn’t it?  You don’t know what it’s like to have the person you love stare right through you because he can’t see you because he’s a BIG FAT IDIOT!”

            She turns away, and he lets her move, just enough so that he’s holding her with her back pressed against him now instead of her front.  He leans forward and presses his mouth close to her ear.  “I’m sorry, Beato,” he breathes.

            “You should be!”

            “So _very_ sorry.” His breath is warm against her ear, and she feels something well up in the pit of her stomach—something she’s only felt before when trapped in human form, never as a witch.  But Battler is a first for a lot of things.  “Is there anything your husband can do to make it up to you?”

            So he hasn’t forgotten that.  “Well…”

            His mouth moves to her neck.  “Come on, Beato, I’m _begging_ you.  I’ll do _anything_ …”

            “ _Any_ thing?”  She feels a cackle welling up inside her, and she hasn’t felt like cackling in days.  Maybe she can let him off the hook a little bit.  After all, he did try to swim after her.  And he definitely seems as if he’s missed her, even if he _clearly_ isn’t contrite enough.  But that is something Beatrice feels she can work with.  She is, after all, the great and Endless Golden Witch.  She’ll make him beg for mercy…and, of course, the Golden Witch is seldom, if ever, merciful.

~

            “Is this really necessary?” Battler asks as Beatrice snaps the collar around his neck.              She cackles gleefully.  “Oh, yes, definitely, after all, you have such a tendency to just run away, Battleeeeeer! And we can’t have that, now can we?”

            She sits back on her heels and smiles brilliantly at him, then turns around.  “Unfasten the back of my dress.”

            “Uh…guh…”  Battler instantly stops protesting, and she feels his fingers fumbling with the straps at the back of the dress.  As it loosens, she shrugs it down over her shoulders.  Battler gives a throaty sigh, and his hands slide across her bare skin and down toward her breasts, but she slaps them away, turns and scoots back across the bed.

            “Honestly, don’t you have any self-control?”

            “No one could have any self control in the face of those cow tits!” Battler protests, but his voice cracks slightly, and Beatrice remembers suddenly that he’s never really—she cackles and leans forward, letting the dress slip down until it’s barely covering her nipples.  Battler watches with wide, avid eyes.

            Then he looks away.  Beatrice splutters.  “What are you doing?  Aren’t they magnificent?”

            “I don’t know…I mean, sure, they’re pretty great and all, but you seem so eager to show me.  Maybe it’s a trick.”

            Beatrice swells up with indignation before she spots the small smirk Battler is trying to keep hidden.  He’s trying to goad her into letting him control this, and that’s never going to happen.  “Is that the best you can come up with, Battler?  A _trick_?”  She sighs.  “Oh, well, if you don’t want to see them, then I won’t make you.”  She lunges forward suddenly and pins him to the bed, kissing him forcefully.

            He wasn’t expecting that.  He moans into her throat and reaches for her breasts again.  She almost stops him, but his thumb brushes against her nipple, and it sends a spike of desire up from her breasts to her brain.  Instead, she takes his other hand and sets it on her thigh.  “Take off my panties,” she orders, and she feels Battler go still beneath her.  “What are you waiting for, Battler?  Are you so incompetent you don’t know how to remove clothing from a lady?”

            “What lady?” he laughs, and Beatrice splutters again.  She wriggles a little nervously as his hands slide up the inside of her thighs, rest against the bottom of her panties, and then swiftly strip them off, gliding across her buttocks on the way.

            She grabs the collar and forces him to look straight at her.  “I am a lady.  See?  Ihihihihi!”  She cackles as a smile flits across his face.

            “Ah, sorry, I almost forgot you were married to the Territory _Lord_.”

            Beatrice blows out her cheeks and pouts.  “That’s not the only reason, you idiot!”

            “Say _that_ in red,” he taunts her, but this time, instead of rising to the bait, she arches her back and grinds against his crotch.  Battler gasps and whimpers and his eyes dilate, wide and dark, beneath her. 

            “Admit that I’m a lady,” she breathes and presses down on top of him, shoving his face between her breasts.  He’s still for a moment, and then he groans and begins to lick the inside of her cleavage, his hands springing up from her waist to her breasts.  She gasps at the sensation and lets him toy with them for a bit longer, until he starts bucking against her; then she grabs both wrists and pins him to the bed, where he looks up at her in frustration.

            “What, am I not proficient enough for you?” he asks.

            “Nonsense.”  Beato is enjoying this feeling of power, not to mention the physical pleasure and the realization that Battler is trapped beneath her, that he cannot leave unless she allows him to do so.  She leans down again and whispers in his ear, “Battler…your left foot is bound.”

            He gapes at her, as the crimson words spill out of her mouth and wrap around his left foot, anchoring it to the bed beneath him.  “What are you doing?” he asks hoarsely, but he doesn’t stop her, doesn’t deny her, even though his golden truth could cut through this red one like a knife through butter, if he wanted it to.  She smirks and rolls her hips against him again.  “Your hands are bound.”  The truth catches his hands halfway to her breasts and jerks him back against the bed.

            “You bitch.”  He struggles against the bonds, the hot hardness of his erection crashing clumsily against her groin, and she gasps and bites her lip. 

            “This is your punishment for leaving, Battler,” she murmurs, caressing his lips with her thumb.  He strains upward to lick the tips of her fingers, and she doesn’t stop him. 

            “You are truly a sadist, Lady Beatrice.  I _am_ wondering—how are you planning on getting my clothes off now?”

            “Easily,” Beatrice smirks.  If he thinks she hadn’t thought this one through, he’s got another think coming.  She runs a light hand down his front, stopping over the bulge in his trousers, which makes Battler throw his head back and moan.  “Remember what form you had,” she whispers, and there is a soft little rustle as the clothes part, fibers unknotting, unwinding, uncarding, until Battler is naked beneath a pile of fluffy, dyed cotton.  Beatrice sweeps it off of his chest and legs.

            “You conniving witch, I liked those p—“

            She straddles him and twitches her hips, and Battler’s eyes slide shut again, his mouth opening obscenely.  Beatrice can’t stop the little sigh that springs from her lips at the sight.

            “Ah—Beato—oh god—“

            She runs a finger down the side of his face.  “Are you trying to request something of me, Ushiromiya Battler?  Do you want to make a contract with me, is that it?”

            His eyes open, wide and dark and deep.  “Isn’t that what a marriage is?”  She makes no attempt to parry; instead she leans back and rubs herself along his cock.  Her body is tingling, her cheeks warm, and wetness is spilling from between her legs, an odd, almost unfamiliar sensation.  It’s been—a long time—and there’s a darkness in her mind, a gulf that cuts her off from any kind of enjoyment like this, but as she pauses, Battler’s eyes spring open again, his bright red hair tumbling russet into his eyes, the most noticeable feature that is strictly his own, not his grandfather’s, a darker shade of the bonds burning brightly around his wrists, and just a suggestion of the flame that has blotted out that particular sin against the Golden Witch.

            Beatrice laughs again, though she’s not sure she can find a reason this time (does she need a reason?), and finally, spreading her skirts out around herself, she sinks down onto Battler.  He gives out a tearing gasp, and his hips buck up to meet hers.

            It hurts, but it’s a clean pain, and Battler stops when she lets out a little hiss, letting her adjust to the feeling of him inside her.  She pauses for only an instant, and then she twitches her hips once and begins to rock on top of him.

            “Oh, _fuck_ ,” Battler moans; his hips crash up to meet hers.  His eyes are shut and his head is thrown back.  “Oh, god, _Beato_!”

            The words send another frisson of heat up through her body, and she feels her mouth open, lips parting.  Everything is hot and moist, humidity holding her body like a jacket.  Battler actually writhes underneath her, and he whimpers.  The sound jerks a soft little noise out of her own mouth, something between a whine and a gasp.  She’s not even sure Battler hears it at first, until his eyes open (concern, is that what that is?), and then he grins and bucks against the restraints.

            Beatrice gasps again and then forces herself to stop moving.  Battler’s face goes almost pale with disappointment, though there’s a spreading red flush across his chest and cheekbones.  “D-don’t stop,” he pants.           

            Beato laughs wildly again.  “Is that a request or an order, Battleeeeeer?” she croons, stroking the back of her hand across his hot cheek.  “Because I don’t think you’re in any _position_ to be giving orders.”

            “You—crazy—b—“ she starts to get up, “It’s a request!”

            “Ahhhh.”  She settles back down onto him, then rakes her nails down along his chest, and he shudders and jerks and moans again.  “Well, in _that_ case…”

            They’re moving again, up and down, an ungainly, stuttering rhythm, but a rhythm all the same.  It’s not, in some ways, the most pleasant sensation for Beatrice—the angle is wrong, the join between them awry on some fundamental level so that instead of sustained pleasure all she gets is the occasionally brushing jolt of it—but that’s nothing, because Battler’s face is naked and vulnerable and contorted beneath her.  Because of her.  Eyes squeezed shut, lips parted, drawing rough breaths that pant and saw at the air, he is the most naked thing she has ever seen.  He strains at his red bonds, hands clutching for her hips, and the noises he makes are between beast and slave.

            She rides him harder, and his eyes fly open, blue at the edges, dark and dilated in the center.  “B-beatrice—I—guh!”  The last guttural exclamation bursts from his lips as his eyes roll up into his head, and his body arches upward into a bow as he climaxes, rigid, gasping, utterly desperate, and Beatrice can’t suppress a moan at the sight.

            Battler collapses, with a groan, to the bed, and Beatrice tumbles down on top of him, cackling gleefully.  “How was that, Ushiromiya Battleeeeeeer?”

            He looks up, exhausted, eyes hooded.  “Magnificent, like your breasts.  Are you planning on letting me up any time this century?”

            “Mmmm…” Beatrice plumps out her lower lip and tries to look considering.  “I _suppose_ I could be _very generous_.  If you promise to kiss my feet if I let you up.”

            It’s hard to read Battler’s expression, but it looks as if there is a faint smirk on his face as he responds, “All right.  I think I can promise that.”

            “Very well.  You are bound, but not to the bed.”  The blue truth gently parts the strands of the red, and Battler’s bonds dissolve into shimmers and then into nothing.  As he rises, slowly, she feels her heart beat suddenly faster in her chest.

~

            Battler is still trembling from the aftermath.  It’s been a tumultuous day, after all.  He sort of died and also revived, and then he lost his virginity (sort of).  And now Beatrice is staring at him, panting harshly, and he knows she hasn’t climaxed yet, and it would be terribly unfair to just leave her hanging.

            There’s a fair bit of slack on the collar, from his neck to where it’s anchored on the bedpost, but he is pushing it almost to the limit as he slides off the bed to kneel in front of Beatrice (his _wife_ ), and takes one of her lithe, thin feet in his hands.  His wife.  Looking at her soothes an ache he hadn’t known existed, an ache that has been in his chest for such a long time now (but no time at all, too.)  This is the first moment of the rest of their lives (deaths?) Philosophically, it’s going to take a bit of time to sort out, but this isn’t really the time for philosophy.

            He takes her foot gently in one hand and kisses it, toes first, then up along the instep.  Beatrice squeals and wriggles, but doesn’t pull away.  He smirks to himself and keeps kissing her, moving slowly up across her ankle and then to her calf.  She trembles a little, and he pauses, but she says sharply, “Why are you stopping, you idiot?!”—by which she obviously means “I didn’t want you notice that, stop being thoughtful!”, so he moves on upward, pausing to lick lightly at the joint behind her knee, and Beatrice moans, full-throated and gorgeous, and then giggles breathlessly.

            His lips are on her thigh, which is milky-white and delicate most of the way up (Battler doesn’t say anything about the thin lines of paler fat like lightning strikes across it—he thinks they’re quite cute, but Beato might not agree).  “Wh-what are you doing, Battler?” she demands.  “It was my foot I told you to kiss!”

            He looks up at her, slides his hands along the insides of her thigh.  “Just displaying my incompetence as usual, isn’t that right?  I guess I’m a little off-target, should I stop?”

            Her lips compress together, and she blows out her cheeks in that adorable little pout of hers.  “Oh, don’t bother, you’re trying, and that’s the important thing.”

            “Good to know,” he says, and he gently (but eagerly, heart pounding in his ears) flips her skirt up, spreads her legs apart, and licks his lips.  She gives a little wriggle, blue eyes staring into his own as if she’s been hypnotized, and then he leans forward and licks _her_ lips (hurr hurr hurr, thanks Dad).

            She gives a soft gasp, and a little moan, and then she clearly stops trying to sound genteel (which is so like Beato, honestly, it’s just like the ‘ladylike laugh’ she kept for all of two seconds) and moans loudly, her ankles tightening behind his head.  She tastes of salt and musk, but it’s not unpleasant, and she feels slick and swollen against his tongue.

            He hasn’t been able to believe his luck since he got back, and it’s gotten more unbelievable with every second (seeing Beato’s naked breasts for the first time stands out as the most fucking unbelievable second of his entire life), and this is possibly the most unbelievable moment of all, because she’s so vulnerable above him, squealing and yelling a whole bunch of crazy gibberish as she writhes on the bed.  He lets himself have a second to look up, by dint of replacing his tongue with his hand, and he almost orgasms for a second time, because Beatrice’s head is flung back, her cheeks are bright red, and her long golden hair is spilling across the ivory globes of her breasts as she wriggles obscenely, and somehow it’s still so _cute_ , so very Beato—maybe the little yelps or the sudden, desperate attempts at drawing herself up and looking dignified as he surveys her—and he doesn’t make her think she’s on display for too long, because he looks away and goes back to what he was doing.  After all, he’s already gotten off himself, and he’s not his old man.

            She climaxes with a yell a moment later, tightening around him, and then she falls back onto the bed limply, and he clambers up beside her.  “So it was awful?” he asks.  “You know, since I’ve never done that before.”

            She nods mutely, a little smile hovering around the corners of her lips.  “You are completely and utterly incompetent, Battler,” she says happily.  “Now come here, I need you to be a stuffed animal.”

            He moves to the indicated spot beside her, and she puts both arms and legs around him like a koala.

            “So it wasn’t worth the wait, then?”

            “No.  Absolutely not,” she says sleepily.  Then she kisses him on the lips.  “But after all, as the Golden Witch, I am magnanimous to a fault.”

            “Of course you are,” he says, and she’s asleep.  Battler follows soon after.

~

            “How come you never use truths like that, Bern?”

            “Because it’s a terrible misuse of that sort of magic.  Not to mention boring.  There are better ways to tie you up.”

            “You just don’t want to admit that Beatrice is more skilled with red and blue than you are.  You have to admit, saying he was bound cos he was married to her and getting that to turn into actual bonds is pretty smooth.”

            “Don’t be silly.”

            “Wanna try some of those tricks out?”

            “What if I kill you instead, you pathetic voyeur?”

            “Hey, whatever floats your boat.  But let’s do it in the bedroom.  With maple syrup.”

            “I’ll bring the peanut butter.”


End file.
